


The Argument

by AwkwardTiming



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Mentions of past drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 16:40:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5547644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwkwardTiming/pseuds/AwkwardTiming
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has a rough day at work. When he gets home, he thinks Sherlock has broken a promise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Argument

Greg found John sitting on a park bench, staring at the lake, his face utterly blank. He was concerned because all he’d known is that Sherlock wasn’t one to ask for favors and all the request had actually said was, “John is at the park. Please make sure he is ok.”

Things had been – After Sherlock had returned, after the shock of seeing him again – Greg had noticed that Sherlock was a bit more fragile. Oh, he went through the motions well enough, but there was this underlying hint that maybe, just maybe, the wrong thing said at the wrong time would utterly break the man.

Greg hesitated for a moment then sat down next to John. Part of him – the part that had spent three years in and out of therapy with his now-ex-wife – wanted to ask questions. Find out what had happened that made Sherlock reach out to him rather than go to John himself. After Mary was out the picture (yet another mystery that Greg, no matter how curious he was, couldn’t quite bring himself to ask after), Sherlock had been strangely attentive to John. Even Donovan had noticed and asked if her boss knew anything about it. 

Greg didn’t, but he was certainly curious.

\------------

John noticed the moment Greg sat down and wondered, briefly, why Mycroft had had him followed after he–

Christ. What was wrong with him?

He’d come home from the clinic in a foul mood after an argument with a man who insisted he wasn’t addicted, just enjoyed the fix. The situation had reminded him too strongly of Sherlock and he hadn’t been able to shake the uneasy feeling that he’d almost lost him too many times and if it happened again, John wasn’t sure he’d make it long enough for Sherlock to turn the situation around and for John to get over it.

He’d mostly shaken it by the time he walked in only to have it hit him with the force of a freight train when he smelled cigarette smoke in the flat. Sherlock had been off cigarettes for nearly six months – since the night of their first kiss. When he made the promise.

John fought with himself briefly, fists clenching and unclenching. Looking anywhere but at his best friend turned lover, who was currently bent over his microscope, absently drinking a cup of tea, utterly unaware that John had returned home.

He lost the fight.

\-----------

Sherlock started when first the door to their flat, then the door to 221 had slammed shut. He’d moved in a daze to the window and watched John turn, without hesitation, to the left, past Speedy’s.

Eyes unwavering, watching the rigid figure move farther and farther away, Sherlock pulled out his phone to text Lestrade, his mind racing through everything, trying to figure out what he’d done. He may not always know the right thing to do, but he was usually able to sort out what he’d done, in hindsight. With John, he preferred to avoid repeat issues. It was important that John stayed this time. 

He was still standing at the window when Mycroft arrived thirty minutes later.

\-----------

As his meeting wrapped up, Mycroft was surprised when his assistant handed him his umbrella instead of informing him that his next appointment had arrived. He looked at her then nodded, knowing she would have already sent the details to his phone for his perusal while he drove.

Doctor Watson and Gregory Lestrade had been sitting in the park for nearly an hour, not talking, apparently. 

Mycroft was mildly annoyed that his afternoon had been rearranged for something that seemed, based on the notes, to be only mildly concerning and likely easily remedied without his help. However, the sight of Mrs. Hudson opening the door for him before he’d fully exited the car brought every instinct built in his years in public service to the fore and though the casual observer would notice no real difference, Mycroft was suddenly ready for battle.

\-----------

Sherlock was carefully sorting through everything. Something had gone wrong. He’d missed something – was continuing to miss something – but what?

John had been fine that morning. Not happy and relaxed, but he had to work and Wednesdays were his least favourite days at the clinic. He didn’t like the receptionist that day – she tried to rush him through patients and refused to reschedule anyone who showed up, regardless how late. Despite that, he’d made Sherlock a second cup of tea before leaving and ruffled his hair and kissed his forehead like always. Sherlock absently pressed his fingers to his forehead.

There was no way to know – for sure – what had happened at the clinic. Oh, Sherlock could tell that he’d had to deal with a screaming baby early in the day (corners of the eyes tight from a fading headache) and that something at the end of the day had been unpleasant (shirt unevenly tucked in, too distracted after using the facilities before leaving for home), but he couldn’t tell why John had become so angry so quickly. His pace and gait had been normal as he climbed the stairs. He hadn’t slammed doors. So, not mad when he got home. Sherlock wished he’d looked up before John got mad so that he could better gauge his exact mood on arriving home.

Sherlock ran through his own behavior during the day. He hadn’t texted John more than usual. He’d showered. Eaten the toast John had left behind (several hours later, dipped in cold tea, a bit vile, but doable that way). He hadn’t blown anything up or made a mess in the sitting room. His current experiment didn’t smell of anything vile. Was not toxic. Did not involve body parts or hazardous chemicals. Left most of the kitchen table available for what John considered appropriate use.

Not today then. Sherlock was beginning to work his way back – perhaps something from yesterday or the day before had been the cause – when he became aware that he was no longer alone and turned to find his brother in the flat, fresh pot of tea at hand, sitting on the low couch.

Without a word, Mycroft poured a cup of tea and added two sugars before holding it out to Sherlock.

The brothers sat in silence, drinking their tea. When Sherlock placed his now-empty cup on the table, Mycroft caught his gaze and tilted his head, asking without words if he needed to ask the question.

Sherlock closed his eyes but shook his head. He let his head fall to the back of his chair and when he looked up again, Mycroft had gone. Sherlock began to replay the conversation.

\-------------------------

John had stood in the doorway for a few moments, watching Sherlock fiddle with the magnification on the microscope, the stench of the smoke lingering unpleasantly.

“Yes, hello John. How was your day?” John said sarcastically when Sherlock failed to acknowledge his presence. Rather than ask about the smoke, John had then questioned Sherlock’s state of dress.

Not even really a question, if John was being honest with himself. “Couldn’t bother to get dressed today? You, of course, expect I’ll take care of making dinner. Do we even have food in?”

Sherlock looked up at his microscope. He was distracted, trying to puzzle out why the fibers were reacting the way they were to the introduction of the chemical. As such, his response was a slightly slower, “I suppose.”

“Right, because you’ve been busy at work all day, dealing with screaming children and frustrated adults. So, obviously, I will need to take care of this.”

“I…”

“Tell me something, Sherlock. Do you think about me when I’m not right in front of you?”

“I don’t…”

John huffed out a laugh and continued, “Because you say these things, and I believe them, but you never quite carry through. Like tonight. It’s Wednesday, yeah? Reminded you last night. You said you’d take care of dinner. I’d be ok with going back out, but you’ve not even dressed today. There’s nothing on the stove and the only thing I can smell in this bloody flat is…”

“John, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise you’d returned home.”

“I’m surprised you noticed I left.” Despite the calm words, John’s face remained flushed in anger.

“Do you want to go out? I can…”

“Don’t bother. I’ll go.” With military precision, John had turned and left the flat again.

\------------

It was growing dark and Lestrade had just decided it was time to leave John in peace – honestly report to Sherlock that John was in one piece and in no danger – when John spoke.

“I was going to suggest going out for dinner,” John said. “He’d said he’d handle dinner, but there’s always something, so I’d made a plan in my head.”

He looked at Lestrade and Lestrade looked back.

“Work was sort of shit today, you know? And I thought, nice dinner with Sherlock and everything will be right with the world again.”

Lestrade nodded, although he had no idea what John was really talking about.

“He couldn’t even be bothered to argue back or try to explain. Anything to show that what I was saying made the slightest difference. Didn’t care that I left.”

Lestrade could think of nothing to say, which seemed just as well as John turned back to the lake, his expression blanking again.

“You know he stopped smoking almost 6 months ago?” John spoke to the lake almost dispassionately. “I was planning a sort of surprise for him when he hit the six month date. I don’t know why I’m surprised that he couldn’t stick with it. Once an addict, always an addict.”

Eventually Lestrade said, “So he is smoking again?”

“The flat absolutely reeked of it when I got home.”

“John,” Lestrade began.

“Yes, I know. Just cigarettes, but it’s the whole thing, isn’t it? He made a promise he couldn’t be bothered to keep. And I know. I know he doesn’t do vows. And somehow, I still let myself think that this might be, I don’t know, vow-worthy. It took long enough to get there, after all. I was starting to let myself imagine that this might – just might – be it for us. The two of us. I love him. And I know he’s not really the sort to say that or maybe even to really feel things that way. I don’t need him to be. But I wanted to be able to trust that he’d keep his word on that. It let me think he might, I don’t know. Stay. I’ve almost lost him so many times and if he’ll go back to smoking that easily, can I really trust that he won’t seek out something else when it gets too boring.”

“I stopped by earlier, with Holcomb.” Lestrade’s comment seemed apropos of nothing.

“Ok?”

“We spent an hour there. Going over pictures for a case Holcomb’s been assigned.”

“Well he is a consulting detective. Only one,” John said, annoyance tinting the words.

“Holcomb’s a chain smoker. If he’s not at his desk, he has a cigarette in hand.”

“Fine,” the word was barely more than a frustrated huff. John was not in the mood for tales of Lestrade’s day. And then it hit him. “Oh.” John stood.

Lestrade scrubbed a hand through his hair as he watched John move quickly through the park in the direction of 221B before making own way home.

\------------

John didn’t precisely run home, but it was a near thing. His heart dropped when 221 came in sight – the lights were off on the second floor. So, too, were Mrs. Hudson’s once he was inside. Everything was still.

John climbed the stairs slowly. He hoped Sherlock was there. John needed to grovel and the whole thing would be somehow worse if, in addition to taking out his frustration on his partner, he’d also driven him from their home. His stomach clenched at the sight of a bag from Angelo’s sitting outside their door.

He picked it up and opened the door to the flat. “Sherlock?”

There was no response. John flipped on lights. The sitting room was empty, as was the kitchen. Their bedroom door was closed, so John knocked and called out again before opening it. He turned the light on there, too, but it was empty. John sat heavily on the edge of the bed, food dropping unceremoniously to the floor.

He recalled, hatefully, the flash of confused pain on Sherlock’s face as he’d left. His face had had a similar flash at the wedding, as John had pulled Mary into a dance after Sherlock had played and made his deduction. John had brushed it off then, too.

Straightening his spine, John forced himself to remember that he’d found Sherlock after that. Granted, a month later. In a… in not ideal circumstances. He’d find him now, too. He’d just retrieve his gun from upstairs and then seek out Wiggins. Wiggins knew Sherlock’s bolt-holes. The nonsense with Mary had taught John that lesson. Wiggins would help. Hopefully.

Action decided on, John stood and made his way upstairs. He flipped on the light in his former room and made his way to his desk, nearly missing the figure curled up, asleep on the bed. He made a noise of surprise and Sherlock woke up.

Catching sight of John, Sherlock froze. He scrambled quickly off the bed, stopping in the doorway to say stiffly, “I apologize. I didn’t expect you to return this evening.”

Sherlock was halfway down the stairs by the time John caught up to him. “Sherlock, wait,” John said, one hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock stiffened and stayed, but didn’t turn around. “I… I need to apologize. It was a rough day. I…misunderstood something when I got home earlier.”

Sherlock nodded and started to step away, intent on separating himself from John before John could become angry again. He still hadn’t worked out what had happened earlier and knew that it was better that he spend as little time with John as possible until he did so that he could avoid a repeat. All that mattered was that John had returned. “I understand.”

“No, Sherlock, wait.”

“There should be dinner downstairs, John. I…didn’t cook, but I had ordered food. You usually shower before dinner on Wednesdays. I’d asked for it to be delivered later.”

John cleared his throat. “I… yeah, I saw the food,” he said, his tone soft.

Sherlock nodded, “Thank you for coming back, John.” John was back. He’d seen the food. Sherlock would remember to cook next time and the argument would be avoided. Sherlock made his way to the sitting room, John following behind.

“That’s not… I mean, I know that’s what I was on about earlier. But I was mad about the smoking,” John said, standing at the entrance to the room while Sherlock went to sit in his chair.

“The smoking?” Sherlock looked over to John, his head tilting in confusion.

“I… the flat reeks, Sherlock. I thought you’d been smoking and it reminded me of a patient I’d had earlier who reminded me a bit of you. He’s badly in need of rehab, but says he doesn’t have an addiction.”

“I haven’t been smoking.”

“I know, now. Lestrade mentioned Holcomb. I’m sorry. I thought – I mean.”

“You asked me to stop.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I did. I guess I just didn’t think. I mean, it was just a request.”

Sherlock frowned. “But you don’t like it when I smoke.”

“Well, no.”

“Or when I text you too often while you’re at work.”

“No, it’s a bit distracting.”

Sherlock nodded. “And you like the sitting room to remain relatively tidy. And part of the table in the kitchen to remain uncluttered.”

“Well, yeah. I mean. Yeah, I prefer that, yeah.”

Sherlock nodded again. “I will ensure that future consultation with Holcomb does not occur in our flat.”

“It’s not that, Sherlock,” John said with a sigh, cursing himself with Sherlock stiffened again.

“Oh.” Sherlock paused a moment, then said carefully, “If you would explain?”

“I don’t know that I can,” John said. “Honestly, it wasn’t really anything you did.”

Sherlock made a noise of dissent. 

“No, really. It was just bad timing on my part. Poor deductions, if you will.”

“I will ensure that smokers do not remain here in the future or I will thoroughly air our home before you return home if they must do.”

“That’s really not necessary.”

“I don’t want you to leave,” Sherlock said, softly.

“I just needed a bit of air, clear my head,” John said. Sherlock turned his head away to look toward the fireplace. John took in his posture. Sherlock was still curled in on himself. Oh. “Oh. Oh, no. I’m not. I won’t just leave, Sherlock. Even – even if I did, it wouldn’t be like that.”

Sherlock drew his knees up and rested his forehead on them, not looking at John and not replying.

John needed a moment to process what he was just beginning to understand, so he went to their bedroom to retrieve the food. He took care reheating and plating it. He found the bottle of wine that Sherlock had left on the counter and poured two glasses.

He carried the plates and glasses and bottle out to the table, then stood in front of Sherlock. When Sherlock looked up, John tugged him up and to the table. They sat next to each other. John took a couple slow bites. Sherlock poked at the food on his plate. John set down his fork.

“I’m sorry.”

“I…It’s fine,” Sherlock said.

“It’s not really,” John replied.

Sherlock looked at him then, startled. “I don’t want you to leave. Just tell me…”

John shook his head. “No, I mean. You did nothing wrong. It was me and I’m sorry.”

“Oh.” Sherlock relaxed slightly. After a moment he set down his own fork and scooted slightly closer to John. Hesitating for a moment, he then rested his head on John’s shoulder. John ran his hand in a slow caress down the length of Sherlock’s spine and felt the tension seep out of the other man. “I love you,” Sherlock said softly.

John closed his eyes tightly, overwhelmed, and turned his head to nuzzle Sherlock’s hair, pressing his lips to the curls. “I love you, too.”

Another several moments of silence passed between them. “You’ll stay?”

“Always, Sherlock. Always.”


End file.
